


Make It Mean Something

by Melawen_C



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Post Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melawen_C/pseuds/Melawen_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>If there’s anything Dean’s good at, it’s burying all that crap deep down inside and pretending it doesn’t exist.</i><br/>Set at the end of Season 7: what happens when Dean returns from purgatory.</p><p>Originally posted on LJ - <a href="http://melawen-c.livejournal.com/44799.html">here</a>.<br/>Enjoy!</p><div class="center">
  <p>___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Make It Mean Something

Dean dreams of purgatory. It smothers him - a dark, invisible weight on his chest. It’s not like the nightmares of hell (nothing like hell, really) but it leaves him restless and anxious nonetheless. It’s consuming.

That part, he thinks, is like hell.

Dean’s been back for two weeks now and still can’t shake the nagging sensation of souls creeping in the shadows.

Castiel has not returned. That weighs on Dean, too… claws at his gut and leaves him in a cold sweat when he tosses and turns at night. He misses him and he hates that helpless feeling.

They are – were – sort of back on the path to being… being whatever they were before, when things were good. Well, when things were decent. Dean can’t really recall a time when things were _good_. 

Sam tries to be optimistic; Dean doesn’t. He sighs in that Sammy way of his when Dean mutters about Cas probably having better things to do than ‘hang out’ with them. He sighs because he knows Dean is more worried than irritated. Yeah, well, he’s right, Dean _is_ worried. Sam says he’s sure it all worked and Dean wants to believe him, but if Cas is out of purgatory, then where is he?

Maybe he’s back in heaven. Maybe he’s hurt or captured or stuck halfway around the world without his magical angel teleportation powers and can’t contact them. Maybe he really just does have better things to do.

None of those ideas are comforting.

Before, Dean at least had a coat to carry around with him. It was a pathetic excuse for a security blanket (Dean’s a grown man for fuck’s sake), but at the time he needed the reminder of what he’d lost. Why he was fighting. Why he still had hope…

He tries to hope. He tries _not_ to hope too much for fear of inevitable disappointment and it all makes him sort of crazy. He rubs absently at the scar on his shoulder and does his best not to think about any of it.

They have Crowley to focus on, now, and if there’s anything Dean’s good at, it’s burying all that crap deep down inside and pretending it doesn’t exist.

Too bad that never works.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nine days later, Castiel knocks on the door.

He looks as exhausted and haunted as Dean feels. His clothes are filthy, his face is pale, but he’s smiling like Dean is the best thing he’s seen in weeks.

“Dean,” he exhales.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean manages, then internally kicks himself for sounding like such an ass when Castiel is pretty much the best thing he’s seen in weeks, too.

He blinks, swaying unsteadily in the doorway. 

“Easy there,” Dean murmurs, wrapping an arm under his shoulder and helping him in, just in time for him to collapse on the couch.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Sam, what the hell?”

Sam looks at him helplessly. “I don’t know, I guess we just let him sleep?”

“He’s an angel; he doesn’t _sleep_.”

“Maybe his batteries are low? I dunno, Dean. I say we wait it out for a day and then see. Besides, I don’t know what else we can do.”

“So you think he’s… what, sick?”

Sam makes a face that means ‘your guess is as good as mine.’

“Maybe you should make him tomato soup,” Dean offers.

Sam gives him a look, but doesn’t say anything. He knows Dean’s more worried than he lets on. Well, Dean hopes he does, at least.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Castiel begins to wake, he’s disoriented and upset. Sam tries to help, but Dean hangs back. They don’t both need to play nurse.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, hazily, reaching his hand out and laying it on Sam’s shoulder.

 _Dean_ feels it – like a white-hot brand on his scar – and it’s all he can do to keep from crying out. He looks frantically toward Sam, but his brother shows no reaction to it. Castiel’s eyes are unfocused, and he keeps asking, keeps reaching, for Dean. 

Sam moves aside and gestures to the couch.

“All yours,” he says magnanimously.

Dean looks at Sam in panic, unaccountably terrified. Sam shrugs, looking just as confused. 

Dean takes a breath and kneels by the couch. Castiel seems to sense that it’s him, because his body relaxes almost immediately. He reaches out again but, before he can touch him, Dean catches his hand and eases it gently back down. If he felt it when Castiel touched Sam, he has no idea what will happen if he lets Castiel touch _him_. 

It feels ridiculous, sitting there holding hands when Castiel doesn’t even seem to know where he is, but Sam nods in encouragement, like he’s doing the right thing. Dean just shakes his head. Castiel blinks slowly, trying to focus on Dean.

“Thought you were gone.”

Dean feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

“No,” he says with a smile that feels forced, “I'm here, Cas.”

He sits there a while and lets Castiel talk to him. Some of it is about him, some of it is about purgatory, and most of it is in another language. Every time Castiel reaches for him, Dean holds his hand still against the blanket.

His shoulder aches the whole time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The next day, Castiel seems to be back to normal. Or whatever passes for ‘normal’ with him. Dean doesn’t know how to define that, anymore. He wishes he did. Might make all of this a little easier to understand.

They were right about his angel powers being temporarily drained; that was why it took him a while to get back. He’d been trying to stay under the radar too, since no one was really sure where all the pieces were on the board, now that they’d escaped purgatory. No one wanted to test the waters yet.

Sam updates Castiel on Crowley, some of which he seems to already know. Dean tunes most of it out. He feels disoriented and on edge, but he watches as they talk and interjects a comment here and there.

His scar is driving him crazy, but he doesn’t let on, doesn’t reach up to touch it like he wants. It doesn’t seem right somehow, not with Sam sitting there between them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That evening, he finds Castiel on the front porch, staring off into the distance. Dean sits beside him on the step and watches the rain clouds roll in, black and threatening. There’s a tightness in Castiel’s eyes and Dean nudges him with his beer bottle to get his attention.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Their eyes meet.

“Hello,” Castiel replies. 

His tone is so formal, so reserved… nothing like it was the day before when he’d woken half-delirious, calling Dean’s name. None of them have mentioned that incident. It’s as if it never even happened.

Dean wonders what, exactly, _is_ happening.

He takes a sip of his beer and makes a face. Castiel frowns.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says, brushing it off. “Just doesn’t taste like it should.” 

He knows it sounds nuts, but it’s true. Everything is a little ‘off’ these days.

“It’s different since you’ve been back,” Castiel says knowingly.

Dean looks at him, surprised. “How’d you know?”

Castiel turns and stares at the sky. “Sometimes things change.”

“Did you get that off a fortune cookie, Confucius?”

He ignores Dean’s sarcasm, which is nothing new. Dean watches him as he watches the rain.

“Sometimes things just change,” Castiel repeats softly.

“I guess so,” Dean says, taking another swig of his beer before he remembers not to. He dumps the rest out and watches as it soaks into the dirt.

His shoulder is stinging, and he still doesn’t understand why.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Weeks go by and, yes, things change.

The musty smell of the cabin clings uncomfortably to him, whereas before he’s never even noticed it. He has moments when he’s working on the car and he forgets how to fix something. 

His scar feels different, too. Before, Castiel had been reaching for him, now it’s Dean who feels like he wants – _needs_ – the contact. It’s a sort of haze that sweeps over him when he’s not expecting it. 

It’s unsettling.

He wants to ask Castiel about it, keeps looking to him for some kind of acknowledgement that he understands what’s happening, but Castiel seems to have changed too. He’s all but emotionless lately. He rarely looks at Dean… and Dean sees how his hands clench uncomfortably at his sides when they stand too close.

After all they’ve been through, he stands by and watches Castiel shut him out like he means nothing. 

Dean can handle some change. He cannot handle this.

As they’re passing each other in the hallway one day, Dean snaps. He grabs Castiel’s arm and crowds him against the wall. 

That touch alone sets his nerves on fire. Castiel’s eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment and Dean can’t say how, exactly, but he _knows_ he feels it too. 

“Son of a bitch,” he whispers, incredulous.

Castiel’s eyes are wide; he knows he’s been caught. 

“Dean, I-”

“You’ve been watching me go crazy all this time and never bothered to say anything?”

He leans in, his voice pitched low. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Castiel shakes his head.

“I'm sorry, Dean,” is all he says, and then he’s gone.

Dean swears aloud and yells at him to come back, but he doesn’t.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Cas was here,” Sam says by way of greeting a few days later as Dean walks through the door with dinner.

“Yeah?” Dean says, trying not to sound interested and probably failing.

“He asked about you.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “Did he?” 

Sam gives him a ‘don’t get pissed, I'm just the messenger’ look which does nothing to help because Dean’s already pissed.

“Why?” he growls.

“He wanted to know how you’d been. He seemed to think…” Sam sighs, “I don’t really know. He was kinda upset.”

Dean doesn’t think he has a good reason to be upset. If anything, Dean should get to be mad at him for his little vanishing act.

“I told him you’d been doing that a lot,” Sam says gingerly, gesturing to where Dean is rubbing his shoulder. 

Dean throws his hands up in the air, exasperated.

“He asked!” Sam cried defensively.

“We’re not in third grade, Sam, if he wants to know something, he can freakin’ talk to me instead of passing notes with you.”

Sam scoffs. “Yeah, because you’re one for talking about feelings.”

Dean glares at him.

“Well, I thought he should know,” Sam says, unapologetically. “I mean, after all, he’s your-”

“He’s not _my_ anything,” Dean snaps, storming out of the room.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Hello.”

The glass in Dean’s hand crashes to the ground, pieces scattering across the floor.

“Hey,” he replies, shakily. 

Castiel fixes it with a flicker of a finger, then stands there, silently.

Dean quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“What do you want?” he prods, hesitantly. 

Castiel frowns at him, curious. “Do you want me to leave?”

Dean rubs a hand over his face. “No, I'm just surprised you’re here. Figured you only stopped in when Sam was around.”

He knows it’s mean and immature, but right now he doesn’t care. 

“I'm not good at this, Dean.”

This conversation is already making his head hurt.

“Good at what?”

“At anything, with you. My words have never been a comfort to you. My actions… those don’t work out very well either.”

He looks so lost, standing there in clothes that are too big for him, with his hands shoved in his pockets and Dean wants, inexplicably, to reach out and touch him. He doesn’t, of course.

“It’s fine, Cas. We’re here now, so…” he shrugs, knowing that was probably one of the most useless answers he could’ve given. 

It not like he means to sound like an idiot, but he’s spent so much time being pissed at Castiel and now he’s trying to not feel hurt and trying to get past whatever this is that has them walking on eggshells. Dean doesn’t even know how to talk to him anymore.

Castiel seems to be having the same problem. He presses his lips together, contemplating, then scuffs his shoe on the floor. The gesture is so human. It doesn’t seem right, somehow. There was a time when his words made the ground tremble. His eyes used to burn with conviction; he used to believe in something, _anything_. 

_That’s_ the Castiel that Dean wants here. That’s the one he misses. 

“Sam said that you’re-”

“Well, Sam’s got a big mouth,” Dean mutters, cutting him off.

Castiel frowns, clearly frustrated, so Dean sighs and keeps his voice softer when he says, “If you want to know something, Cas, come talk to me.”

“Why should I, when you don’t want me around?”

Dean looks up at that, surprised at the hurt in his voice. Castiel gives him a sad smile.

“I do,” Dean says adamantly, because it’s one thing for Cas to think that he’s being a jerk, but it’s another for him to think that he doesn’t belong here.

They both fall silent and Dean doesn’t look at Cas, can’t make himself look, but he can _feel_ the angel’s eyes on him. Castiel’s voice is hesitant when he finally speaks.

“Are you angry with me?”

“I was. I mean, I am, maybe.” Dean lets out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know any more, Cas.”

He rubs at his shoulder, like he can’t seem to help doing lately, and hears Castiel draw in a ragged breath.

Dean looks up to find his eyes fixed on the mark on Dean’s shoulder – _his_ mark. His eyes flicker to Dean’s briefly before returning to the handprint, as if he can’t look away. Dean’s heart pounds.

“I’ve wondered…”

The need in Castiel’s voice is shocking. Something twists inside Dean’s gut, pulling him closer.

“Can I?” Castiel asks, eyes wide. 

“Knock yourself out,” Dean replies, trying to be nonchalant, though his voice sounds much rougher.

Castiel reaches for him, and for a long moment, his hand hovers over the scar, fingers trembling ever so slightly. Every nerve in Dean’s body tenses in anticipation as he waits for the contact. 

Slowly, Castiel’s hand settles on his arm and, though Dean knows the handprint belongs to the angel, it’s still impressive to see the perfect match. He watches the tendons in Castiel’s hand flex as he tightens his grip. 

At first, Dean feels nothing more than the warmth of skin against skin, and that surprises him, considering how strong it had been before, but the effect of Castiel’s touch is gradual: It starts as a dull ache on the surface and spreads, slowly, inward. Once there, it becomes something entirely different... A vaguely familiar desire uncoils in Dean, distant memories stirring and pricking at the back of his mind. They’re shapeless, nameless, but he feels them washing over him.

Painfully strong fingers dig into Dean’s skin, jolting his focus back to the present. Castiel’s other hand is braced on Dean’s shoulder, as though he can’t support himself. He groans softly, a sound so uninhibited that Dean closes his eyes again, terrified to see the angel’s expression. 

Heat courses like a fire through him; his heart beats out a frantic rhythm. He’s flying, falling, spinning out of control, and he grasps for the only anchor he can find. He clings to Castiel, but it feels like he’s far away. He wants him here. He wants. Almost as though Cas has read his mind, the sensations grow – gaining momentum, engulfing him.

It’s too much, now, and Dean hears himself pleading for it to _stop, please stop_. At once, Castiel tears his hand away and reality settles around them again.

Dean’s legs are shaking, his mouth is dry, and he leans on the counter, gasping for breath. The pounding of his heart seems to echo the pounding in his head and he groans at the pain, burying his face in his hands. 

“What the hell,” he breathes.

“Sometimes I forget how fragile humans can be,” Castiel whispers apologetically, though he sounds just as shaken. 

“Well, write it down somewhere,” Dean gripes, still waiting for the pain to subside. 

Castiel’s fingers cradle his head, murmuring words that Dean can’t decipher, and when he pulls away, the pain is gone. Not the memory of it, though. Dean exhales slowly.

“Care to explain?” he accuses, pushing unsteadily to his feet. 

Castiel regards him for a moment, and then says, so low Dean can barely hear him: “You felt what I feel.”

Dean gets it. Finally.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There are times when Castiel looks at him and Dean wants to look away.

There are times when he thinks about Castiel’s hand on his skin and Dean simply _wants._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Even with Castiel around now, Dean still dreams of purgatory. He dreams of Cas being stuck there, never able to get out, and himself helpless to do anything.

He wakes with a start in the middle of the night, legs tangled in the sheets, body in a cold panic. Once he realizes where he is, he notices the figure in the doorway. There’s barely enough light for him to see that it’s Castiel.

“I heard you calling and I thought,” he pauses, like he’s thinking of the right thing to say, “I thought I could help?”

Dean nods because he probably shouldn’t speak. Thankfully, Castiel must see it, because he walks slowly to him and sits on the edge of the bed. Dean’s eyes are adjusting to the dark now and he can make out the curve of his shoulder, the line of his jaw.

He sits up, bringing their faces that much closer to each other. Castiel turns toward him, eyes bright. Dean swallows. 

“The other day, when you…”

He can’t say ‘touched me’ – can’t form the words – but he doesn’t need to, because Castiel looks at him like he can see right inside him and suddenly it’s like when they first met and Dean feels almost afraid of him – afraid of how his heart pounds and of how he can’t catch his breath and can’t look away. 

He tries again, because he hasn’t been able to ask but he needs to know.

“If that’s what you feel, why can I feel it too?”

Castiel lays his hand on Dean’s knee.

“Because you want to,” is his answer, simple and assured. “And because I want you to.”

Dean groans and lets his head fall on the angel’s shoulder.

“Please, Cas,” he breathes, “I keep thinking… I keep…”

Castiel’s fingers are moving slowly up his arm and Dean knows exactly where they’re headed, but he doesn’t know if he can handle it yet, so he kisses him instead.

He works to fit their mouths together in a way that feels good, the relief at finally being allowed this enough to have his mind already spinning, but it’s Castiel who goes further - his tongue darting out to touch Dean’s, silently asking him to return the gesture. Dean does, eager to give him what he wants.

They tumble back into the bed, with Castiel’s fingers tangled in his hair and Dean’s hands underneath his shirt, mapping the warm skin of his back. He’s breathing heavily as their lips part. They both are. 

Castiel looks down at him and tilts his head, knowingly. He traces Dean’s nose, his lips, and down his neck. He follows the lines on Dean’s tattoo, first with his fingers, then with his tongue. His eyes are bright and his touch is confident and this, Dean realizes with a groan, this _is_ his Cas. 

He runs his hands down Castiel’s chest and feels the muscles in his stomach quiver eagerly. He pushes one knee up between Castiel’s legs just to hear him gasp – eyes squeezed shut, face flushed. He’s gorgeous.

“Dean,” comes the soft plea from above him.

At the sound of Castiel’s voice, unguarded and shaking, a shiver shoots down Dean’s spine. 

“Tell me what you want, _anything_ ,” he promises, knowing he’s never meant those words like he does now.

Castiel makes this harsh, desperate noise and Dean crushes their mouths together hungrily, that impatient, demanding _want_ driving out all thoughts and leaving raw desire. Then they’re kicking off sheets and pulling off clothing to get closer to one another. Dean pins him to the bed, Castiel’s fingers digging into his hips. He manages to work a hand between them.

Castiel gasps at the touch, panting against Dean’s mouth as Dean strokes him. His hips thrust up helplessly, hands clutching at Dean’s arms, his waist. Dean lowers his mouth to Castiel’s ear and whispers all the things he should have said ages ago.

There’s a power in the angel now that Dean hasn’t seen in too long; it’s thrumming just beneath the surface and it’s drawing him closer and closer. Their bodies are moving together in a rhythm that’s not quite steady, and Castiel’s breath is warm on his cheek. Their mouths meet in a messy, desperate kiss, and then Castiel is pushing and tugging, turning them so Dean is on his back again. It’s not a struggle, really, because Dean is all too happy to have Castiel above him like this, frantic and desperate.

He thinks he’s leaving bruises on Castiel’s hips, but he can’t stop. He _knows_ Cas is leaving marks on his throat, his lips and teeth as relentless as the rest of his body. Dean loves it – wants it – and tells him so, again and again.

“Close your eyes,” Castiel commands. 

Without hesitation, Dean obeys and for a moment, he almost can’t feel Castiel’s body; it’s like he’s holding pure energy – it’s heat and strength and _desire_ and it’s overwhelming. 

Then, the body that Dean knows is with him again, hard against his own, and just as close. So close. Through the haze of it all, he feels a hand sliding up to his shoulder. 

“Oh, god,” he whispers, voice trailing off into a moan. 

Dean comes, with Castiel’s hand pressed tight to his scar.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They stay there, together, in the dark for a while. Every so often, Castiel’s fingers brush his skin, making him shiver.

As he starts drifting off to sleep, there is a fluttering sound and he knows Castiel is gone for now. He doesn’t mind; he won’t have any more nightmares tonight.

In the morning, the cabin will still be musty. Dean still won’t like beer. Sam will look at them and roll his eyes and say they’re crazy, and he might be right, but Dean thinks he can handle that.


End file.
